


Decisions

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25802191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: Boyd never questions his decisions.Request from Joodiff.
Relationships: Peter Boyd/Grace Foley
Kudos: 8





	Decisions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



**Decisions**

* * *

He’s not quite literally tearing his hair out, but Boyd does look extremely dishevelled. And not in a sexy, jaunty manner either.

His silvery hair has been raked and tugged and mussed by desperate, impatient hands for hours now; it’s standing up at all angles. His clothes are a little better, tailored to perfection as they are, but even they show signs that the day has been far from easy. His eyes are lined with exhaustion, his lips thin with worry. Stress seems to be oozing from his very pores as he stands in the doorway and stares.

The lights in the room are dimmed, the fading sunlight outside giving a soft glow that penetrates the harshly functional room with its plain walls and metal furnishings, the single hard blue plastic chair beside the bed.

He doesn’t take it. Lingers, instead, in the doorway. In the shadows.

Visiting hours are over, but it’s amazing what a warrant card will do when necessary.

Grace is sleeping.

Resting back against the pillows, her eyes are closed and her chest is rising and falling rhythmically. For a while Boyd fixates on that movement, not trusting that it is real, that his eyes are not lying to him.

That everything he has been told by the nurses is not the truth.

Grace is sleeping, and she is breathing normally.

A knot loosens in his chest; something unclenches, just a little.

Boyd inhales deeply, the first time in hours. There’s a trembling in his muscles, a weakness he’s only ever known in extreme exhaustion or pain before. The hand that reaches for his forehead, that momentarily covers his eyes, feels unsteady until it connects, until he slides his fingers through his hair, hand cupping the back of his skull, squeezing the painful muscles in his neck.

She is alive. She’s right in front of him.

The doorway becomes a lonely place and, like a moth to a flame, he is drawn to her.

Standing beside the bed he can study every tiny detail about her. The way she looks uncomfortable, not quite peaceful. It’s a disturbing sight in the woman he is used to knowing in every way as a pillar of serenity, of cool headedness and calm, sensible answers. She is the water, strong, steady and tempering, to his fire, tumultuous, unpredictable, driven.

He needs her, and not just by his side at work.

When all else is said and done, she is his best friend.

The one he turns to in a crisis.

But this crisis…

The hospital gown, as ugly as it is, might actually be a nice complement to her eyes, if she had them open. Instead she looks weary and drawn, even in slumber. There are tiny lines in her forehead, around her eyes, as if she is frowning in her dreams.

Boyd can’t bring himself to think about what those dreams might be about, what might be unfolding in her mind right now. 

Her hair is a mess, and automatically something in him moves to ease the strands back into some kind of order for her. Where the gesture comes from, he doesn’t know, but it feels as natural as the day has been long.

Her skin, where the very tips of his fingers graze it, is so very soft. It startles him, and he stands frozen as something warm and exciting fizzes up his arm, traps his breath in his chest.

What is he doing? How has he suddenly stepped over that invisible line, after all this time? 

Not today.

No.

He will be a man and find all the words she deserves. And he will not fear the response, will not stay quiet because of all the what ifs.

But not today.

That would be… grossly unfair.

She deserves better. She deserves more.

He’s lying to himself, and he knows it. If he could do it, he would have already done so. His thoughts, his feelings – they will stay where they belong, in the shadows.

She will never know.

Especially now.

Guilt washes up in a wave, slams into him as if he were standing on the sea wall in a storm, a target for battering.

It’s a metaphor for his life, his service.

Boyd is pragmatic, and long ago accepted that policing is trying to please everyone whilst pleasing no one.

Doing the right thing.

The overwhelming principle, one he’s put his heart and soul behind.

It doesn’t make him popular, or the legions of other officers out there, doing the best they can, trying their hardest to help, to heal, to fix, to resolve, to catch, to fight, to prosecute.

Everything he does – everything they do – will offend someone. Will be questioned, smeared across the tabloid pages, will be made a spectacle of with the benefit of hindsight.

But they do it anyway. _He_ does it anyway.

Deal with what’s in front of you, use your common sense, trust your instincts.

Make decisions and stand by them.

Do the right thing.

It’s what he – they – are taught. And Boyd has never been afraid to make decisions, and to defend them. But what seems right in the heat of the moment can so often be questioned and scrutinised and dragged out over space and time in minute detail long after the split-second moment that led to a choice being taken, orders being issued.

Privately he fancies that the general public might just cut the police a little more slack if they understood what it really feels like to run into danger when everyone else is running away, to do your absolute best to hold everything together in those few precious seconds and minutes when the world is in chaos and there aren’t nearly half the necessary tools and resources to fix the crisis at hand.

Sometimes, in the quiet, darker moments, he wonders if the vast majority of decent people out there would change their tune if they saw how a small band of people trying their hardest to protect and serve, feel under the crushing weight of retrospective scrutiny, drawing out over many months and years what happened in a few short moments. He wonders too, if any of them would be able to shoulder such a burden.

Boyd has always stood by his convictions. Has never questioned his decisions. To do so would be to doubt himself. He is a firm believer that there are always things to learn, and that mistakes do happen, but to say a choice made was wrong with the benefit of later understanding – it’s just not right. Leads to more pain and suffering.

Leads to crumbling confidence and an inability to do the job.

He’s seen it many times.

Has always, always taught those under him that whatever has been done has been done. It cannot be changed. The choices were made with the information available at the time. Review them, yes, and learn from any mistakes. But do not apply knowledge learned later to what was then decided or done.

But…

Grace.

He’s worked with her for so long, has always trusted her. Is entirely comfortable bouncing off her and making decisions with her. So much so that just occasionally he forgets how fearless she is.

Forgets that sometimes, just sometimes, he loses sight of the fact that she’s so much smaller and slighter, that she’s not an officer, trained to think of safety and security in the same way that he is. That she’s getting a little older, that she’s not as quick as she used to be.

That, in fact, she’s not as invincible in the flesh as she is in his mental picture of her.

Today was one of those days.

And today he forgot.

The consequences are shattering.

His responsibility, his decisions.

And now he has to live with it.

On the bed Grace stirs just a little, fusses very slightly before settling again, her hand shifting on the blankets. Boyd’s eyes are drawn to her slim fingers, to the intrusion of the canula in the back of her hand, the stark white tape holding it in place. Her fingers are tangled in the tube and a corner of the sheet that has wrapped around her wrist. Slipping his fingers beneath hers, Boyd very gently lifts her hand, eases the sheet away and smooths it down, then slowly, carefully straightens the tube again, taking care not to jar it and cause her pain.

Beneath the sharp scent of hospital sheets and cleaning fluid his nose picks up a hint of the softer scent he associates with her. It tickles his nostrils, lends him to take a deep breath and hold onto it.

They were doing as they always do – acting as a pair who know each other so well they don’t have to question each other’s actions. They’ve been doing it for so many years Boyd has never stopped to think about it, to ask himself if maybe, maybe he should stop her or slow her down sometimes.

Grace is the bravest woman he’s ever known, except perhaps when it comes to rats. A slight grin forms as he remembers just how quickly she shut the door between them and Hannibal when it emerged that he was loose in the office. The grin fades though, as she mutters in her sleep and grimaces, tries to move her arm but can’t, the action sluggish and indistinct.

Years and years ago, when they first met and he felt that initial spike of attraction, as they quickly fell into friendship as they worked their way through a gruesome triple kidnap and murder case in a tiny, musty office, he realised just how keen to be involved she was, that he would have to rein her in, hold her back as she tried to charge forward with each new lead.

Nothing has changed with the passing of the years.

He trusts her implicitly. Knows she has never put herself in positions of undue risk, even as he knows that she has such a thirst for knowledge and knowing, that occasionally she can be every bit as blind to risk as he can.

Still…

Boyd never questions his decision making. And, he realises, he’s not going to now.

Grace is the most intelligent, sharp woman he has ever met. While she hasn’t spent all the years he has with a warrant card and everything that goes with it, she‘s very good at assessing situations, at understanding the hows and whys. She will not blame him for what happened.

They were each culpable in their own way, but so were the others. Murray was spooked, there are no two ways about it. Before Spence and Sarah started running, he was entirely unthreatening. The situation could have unfolded so many ways, Boyd knows. And to start questioning now…

It was an accident.

Just an accident.

Grace would never have gone to meet Murray if she hadn’t been comfortable with it. If she hadn’t felt she was safe. She knew the others were unarmed, and she still chose to speak to him.

A hint of jealousy flares as he thinks of the other man and the ease with which Grace interacts with him. With the history they share.

 _How_ , a small part of his mind asks, _could Murray have walked away from Grace all those years ago?_

 _Does it matter?_ another part of him asks. If he hadn’t, the present could be an entirely different scenario and he might never have even met Grace.

There is no point if dwelling on what ifs. Boyd has always told himself so. What if, what might have been – none of it is real.

No.

What is real is the woman lying in the bed in front of him.

The woman who has fascinated him more than any other in his life. Fascinated and frustrated.

What could they have had together if he had spoken up all those years ago? A thousand and one possibilities chase through his mind before he clamps down on them.

No. No what ifs.

Only what could bes.

That guilt again, clawing at him, stabbing through his chest. Why has he always been silent? Why has he waited for a near tragedy to realise what he must do? What he ought to have done so long ago. It’s cliché, and he detests himself for it.

Self-sabotage, maybe. A need to protect his bitter, angry heart. Better to keep it wrapped tight in his chest than risk the agony of more loss.

And a need to protect her. Disaster and chaos so often follow him. Anger boils and seethes through him. Frustration surrounds him, words failing him when he wants and needs to let out the dark, bitter emotions that stalk him.

Better by far to spare her all that than to let her in and risk inadvertently wounding her, too.

And so Boyd stands alone, trapped in solitude. His own choice.

 _What would be hers?_ that tiny, traitorous part of his mind asks. _If you asked her, let her chose, what would she decide?_

It’s immaterial.

He would hurt her. Not on purpose, never on purpose, but eventually she would bleed when he bleeds, and that he could never live with. His pain is his alone, he cannot, _will_ not, place that burden on her as well.

It’s a continual agony.

Work with her, laugh with her, love her.

But never let her in.

Love her from afar.

That is his choice.

Her choice… he cannot allow it.

He is too damaged, too pained, too weak for her. It would never be fair, and that he could never live with.

Quite why he’s even having this internal battle, Boyd isn’t sure. It’s selfish, he decides; he’s here for Grace, not for him.

On the bed she looks tiny. Even a little frail. He despises himself for the thought, because in his mind she is a towering, indomitable force. A spirited, vastly intelligent, stubborn woman with a loyalty that still astounds him, and an overwhelming level of compassion that warms him.

He needs her.

It’s really that simple.

Without her… well, he cannot imagine what it would be like. For so many years now she has been his friend, his comrade in arms, his confidant. That solid, unwavering, reassuring presence beside him.

What would she even decide, if he gave her the opportunity?

Boyd shuts that line of thought down immediately. Possibility, as much as it scares him, torments him more than anything. Better by far to live without it, to keep it hidden away in a dark corner of his mind for someday.

Someday when he’s a better man than he is now.

For now, she’s as close to okay as she can be, and he can see it with his own eyes.

Right in front of him she is breathing softly, steadily. If it weren’t for the look of exhaustion and the thick surgical bandaging on her head she would look almost normal.

Still, until she wakes, until she speaks to him, that remaining edge of fear won’t lift.

Final proof, that’s what he needs. Final proof that she is still herself, still whole. That she will mend. That she is still Grace.

His Grace.

Where it comes from, he’s not sure. A need to reassure himself, perhaps. Or a moment stolen that he would never dare take with her awake, out of fear for where it might lead.

Either way, he acts without thinking. Without consciously deciding.

Leaning down, Boyd presses his lips to her forehead. Feels the warmth of her skin beneath them as a comfort he didn’t know until that moment that he desperately needed. Antiseptic and the harsh chemicals used to launder the sheets burn in his nostrils, try to stain the moment.

It’s far from right.

This room, this bed…

These circumstances…

Still, his heart is a little more settled by the knowledge that she is warm and real and there.

There is turmoil, too, though, because he _kissed_ her. His lips touched her skin and he felt…

Alive.

Staggered by the enormity of what he has just done, Boyd closes his eyes, tries desperately to settle himself.

Fails.

Harsh and croaky, the words come out of nowhere, both startling him, and soothing him. “I’d have thought you could do better, for a first kiss.”

Boyd pulls back and gazes down at her, his heart freezing for just a moment. Slowly, as though it costs her effort to do so, Grace’s eyes flicker open, and, wonderfully, incredibly, a twinkle of mischief is dancing there in the blue depths. 

“Grace,” he breathes, his voice the tiniest whisper.

“Peter.”

Her eyes are tired, drawn, but still they have captured him, hold him paralysed. “Well?” she asks, a smile flickering at the corners of her lips. 

Boyd tries to speak, feels the words fail him. He clears his throat, eventually croaks, “Well?”

“Are you going to do better?”

There’s impishness there, but seriousness too, lurking behind. He sees it all in an instant, and without anything else passing between them the world tilts and everything becomes unexpectedly crystal clear.

Boyd feels… peace. That’s the only way he can describe it. And suddenly he sees how stupid he’s been, how very wrong he was.

His argument with himself disintegrates.

He was so wrong.

“Yes,” he promises, and with that one, single word they both know he is not just talking about the here and now. He is talking about himself, and her, and the future as well. About everything.

So, so gently, Boyd strokes the side of her face, marvelling at how it feels to be free to touch her. To be invited in, to be wanted. His eyes sliding shut again, he lowers his head, and finally, finally finds her lips with his own. Slowly and softly he explores the contours of her mouth, learns the pleasure of her touch, feels the thrill of excitement and desire rush through his body.

On the bed Grace lets out a little sigh and he feels the shiver run through her. Pulling back Boyd stares down at her, thunderstruck.

Everything has changed. In the last few minutes, everything in his whole world has changed. For the better.

For the first time in their long acquaintance, Grace has no words either. They simply gaze at one another, and as ever, all that needs saying passes between them in silence.

Eventually Boyd drags the uncomfortable chair closer, positions himself right beside her where he can see her, can sit and hold her hand, can play gently with her fingers.

Can lean in and steal another kiss.

And another.

And another.

Everything has changed, and now he knows.

All will be well.

Because in the end, she decides.


End file.
